


The Fury of Your Desire

by MapleleafCameo



Series: Towards Ecstasy [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Desire, First Kiss, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:11:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2265816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of Sherlock's talents as an angel is the ability to see John's thoughts. He sees all of his hidden desires and he's not afraid to confront them</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fury of Your Desire

**Author's Note:**

> Having a crap weekend - one of those were I feel melancholy & kinda like I'm not good at anything - so I thought I would cheer myself up:)
> 
> Thanks to mattsloved1 for looking this over & helping me t cheer up some more:) Hope it cheers others up as well;)

The feather drifted down from above, a large, shadowy snowflake. Sherlock was perched in the tree. He did that sometimes. John would look for him and he would not be on the pavement, walking beside him but on a lamppost or a monument, hidden from view from all but John. Bending down, he picked it up. It still felt warm. His finger ran along the shaft as he felt the pull of the barbs as they moved under the tip. He was mesmerized by the sensation and continued to move his hand back and forth.

He barely noticed the thud as Sherlock landed almost noiselessly, his wings steadied him. John stopped what he was doing only after a hand much larger covered his own. He looked up, a little startled, into eyes, more green than usual in the escaping afternoon light.

“What are you doing, John?” asked Sherlock, his voice molten and scorched, like he had flown through smoke and ash, the fury of the beginning of the universe. He probably had.

Feeling his skin prickle with heat of unnameable things, John cleared his throat and opened his mouth to answer. He closed it again almost as fast, certainly because Sherlock had stepped closer, his midnight wings expanding from his back, the black almost blue in places and yet even in the shadow of the tree they gleamed with miniature sparks, tiny stars trapped in the feathers. They covered them both, blocking curious eyes and in John’s estimation of Sherlock’s exquisiteness, covetous ones as well. 

“You keep thinking about me.” He said it like it was the simplest thing, like John could stop if he wanted to. “Every since you found me, you haven’t stopped. You wonder what it would be like to kiss me. If I would be shy and hesitant or wanton and shameless.” He reached up with his free hand and lightly touched John in the middle of his forehead. “It’s always right there. I see it, you know.” He moved his finger along John’s brow, trailing it down his face to his jaw, which he then tipped up. John hadn’t even noticed he had ducked his head to hide his blush at Sherlock’s words. “There’s a part of you that sees me as wondrous and pure, and a part that does not.”

Then he smirked, more the devil in his face than the angel. Who would have ever thought an angel could grin like that, with lips like those, full of sin and unholy promise, as he stood there, looking like sex personified, the way he moved, the dying sun on those goddamn fucking wings. At this moment he had more in common with his brother, Lucifer, was one with him, Morningstar, most beautiful of angels. All the while these thoughts chased through his head, thoughts he knew Sherlock could read as green eyes, slowly, ever so slowly, raked up John’s frame, making him vibrate. 

The hand on his jaw curved round, Sherlock cupped the back of his neck and without asking he pulled John to him, fiercely, owned him, bent down and with that first kiss, unspoken, declared John to be his; the fire in this kiss, fire which forged the beginnings, sparked between the touch of their lips, starburst. John, who until Sherlock had dropped down from the sky, had been unloved and alienated, felt the tinder in his heart, dried and desiccated, as it waited, waited for someone, something to give it life, blaze with unquenchable heat, radiate with new found vitality. He moaned into Sherlock’s mouth, shared breath, a life giving inhalation, the rusty muscle finally stirring, jump started again.

This kiss, which he had thought about, had imagined as he looked at the full mouth, returned to John his existence again. It morphed until the kiss became a pact, an implicit declaration that they belonged, had become a new entity.

A pause in the press of lips as Sherlock whispered into John’s ear, “I’m not pure. Not any more. Not for a long time. We were pure at the dawn. It changed during the war, after.” His fingers dug into John’s arm with bruising touch. “Take me to your bed John. I want you to do all the things you conceive of in your thoughts.”

John’s voice was shakier than he’d have liked. “All?” 

“All,” his lips placed along the pulse point of John’s neck. “Every single one. Ones pure and” if possible his voice deepened, darkened “adulterated. I want the fury of your desire to immolate us both and you passion to take me higher than I have ever flown.”

As John staggered from the kiss, he took Sherlock’s hand, kissed it and with a grin matched in wickedness, dragged him back to the flat.


End file.
